


won't you lower your sword and your shield?

by oceanvirus



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e14 The Defense Rests, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idk how to tag things, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, post ep for the defense rests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanvirus/pseuds/oceanvirus
Summary: Jake stress-bakes. Amy checks on him when he's stressed. The end result? A basic baking lesson, three batches of delectable chocolate-chip cookies, and a newfound understanding of one another.Takes place immediately after The Defense Rests (or maybe Windbreaker City? Who knows).





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello all and welcome to the first attempt i've made at writing since my naruto phase in 2013
> 
> i've had this prompt in my notes for like. 2 weeks. and last night after the premiere (which! was! so!! good!!!!!) i decided to try my hand at writing, and i ended up pounding this entire fic out in 4 hours lmao
> 
> as it's been so long since any form of coherent creativity has sprung from my mind, i have no idea if this is a flaming dumpster fire of a fic or not, so some suggestions and constructive criticism are graciously welcomed!
> 
> title is from high times by landon pigg!

Jake Peralta is uncomfortable with emotions. 

It's a fact that presents itself on a near-daily basis; if emotions run high, Jake will, in turn, run far. So, in order to ensure that he doesn't bottle himself up until he explodes (and to ensure his sanity stays about him) it's a given that at least one person on the squad will check on him after a particularly gruelling day. It's not like he's the only one who gets this attention, though – it's almost an unspoken agreement within the precinct. If anyone is going through a rough time — whether it be a difficult case, family matters, or a nasty breakup — one person will volunteer to go check up on them after work. 

In Jake's case, this person is almost always Amy. 

Amy doesn't think anything of it; she _is_ his partner, after all. That's why she didn't understand why everyone had given her weird looks this time around. It had been a long day for everyone, but especially for Jake. On top of the kidnapping-turned-homicide they had been working so fruitlessly for the past few days and being "dumped by a mega-fox" (his words), he'd also gotten a call from his mom, claiming his dad had 'pulled a Roger' again and somehow weaselled her out of $300 for an unnamed emergency.

That's how she found herself outside of his apartment complex, armed with a six-pack of Jake's favourite beer, Mario Kart, and the intention to distract him from his sorrows with some drunken competition.

She leaned on the buzzer and while waiting for a response, inwardly rehearsed her greeting. She never really gave much thought as to what to say to Jake (certainly not as much thought as when she spoke with Holt), but something just felt off, and she found herself on the edge of nervousness when contemplating an opening line. She tugged at the sleeve of her sweatshirt in anticipation — some way-too-big NYU thing she stole from her brother ages ago, the sleeves fraying at the hems.

Luckily, she didn't have to say anything, because the buzzer sounded without a word from its resident, signalling the door was unlocked. Shrugging off her anxiety, she pushed the door open and made her way up the stairs. About halfway up the first flight, she absentmindedly noted the smell of baking, but she pushed that thought to the back of her mind and continued up to her destination. 

Rapping lightly on the door, she could her the sounds of something glass breaking, a distracted shout of _"Just a second!"_ and some mild swearing, Amy’s concern slowly growing before the door swung open to reveal a very ruffled Jake. 

His eyes lit up slightly, a half-hearted grin on his face, and Amy took a second to glance over him. He wore the same jeans that he wore earlier, but had swapped the trademark plaid button-up for an old academy t-shirt, which was now covered in an array of baking ingredients. His hair was in sticking up at odd angles, there was something white in it — flour, she noted — and she was pretty sure there was egg on his forehead. 

"Santiago! Hey, sorry, just- just come in, you can throw your stuff on the couch..." He trailed off as he turned back towards the source of the earlier commotion: the kitchen. Upon further inspection, the source of the noise was easily identified: a glass baking dish lay in pieces on the floor. She took in the scene slowly, and it dawned on her that this was the origin of the baking smell: his oven was on, there were measuring cups and eggshells everywhere, and a light dusting of flour coated almost every surface in the room.

"Hey, Peralta, I...I brought some stuff..." She stumbled through her sentence, eyes still trained on the scene. "You want some help cleaning-- _Jake!_ Stop, you're gonna cut yourself on the glass, moron."

He looked up and smiled sheepishly, having ignored the shattered bakeware in favor of opening the oven to check on his food. "Too late." He held up his left hand, which sported a large, rectangular band-aid across the palm. 

Sighing, she set down her things and walked to his closet to retrieve a broom. Pushing a stray piece of hair away from her face, she wordlessly started sweeping up the mess. He ran a hand through his hair haphazardly as he grabbed the garbage can, holding it out once she finished her work so she could dump the dustpan’s contents into it.

“Thanks,” He mumbled, clearing his throat. “I usually leave the cleaning until afterwards, but I guess broken glass probably takes priority over burnt banana bread.”

“You would be correct in that assumption. Why are you baking banana bread at half past midnight?” She asked as she set the broom against the counter. 

“Why not?” He fired back jokingly. He looked up to see her crossed arms and skeptical expression, and sighed. “Fine. I bake when I'm stressed. It's mindless and comforting, and I get free dessert at the end of it.” 

“Can't argue with that logic.” She replied, uncrossing her arms and leaning against the doorjamb. “So, banana bread, huh? Are you gonna share, or do I have to leave and take my beer and Mario Kart with me?” She demanded, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

A look of feigned horror flashed across his face. “You wouldn't.”

“I would.”

They grinned at one another as he donned a pair of oven mitts and removed the pan from the oven, setting it on a cooling rack. He walked back towards the living room, speaking as he went.

“Well, I would love to let you indulge in my fantastic baking, but A, it has to cool down, and two, you have to swear upon your favourite pantsuit that you’ll never tell anyone, especially Charles. If he finds out I’m amazing at making literally any kind of food, I will never hear the end of it.” He said, half-seriously, as he took up residence on the couch. 

“Fine.” She stated, following his lead and lowering herself into the spot beside him. “In the meantime, how about I destroy your ego?” She prompted, holding up the game cartridge with a mischievous grin.

His face immediately perked up, a spark of competitiveness alight in his eye as he snatched the case from her hands. She bit back a smile at the impending success of her plan.

“Oh, you're on. Fastest time gets 20 bucks.”

He tossed her a controller and put the cartridge in his old NES, flipping on the TV. As he carelessly dropped back on the couch next to her, she tried to ignore the warmth growing in her cheeks as his shoulder bumped against hers, instead turning her focus towards a win. 

***

20 minutes and 5 victories on Amy’s behalf later, the edge in Jake’s taunts had faded. Now they sat in comfortable silence, eating banana bread with the quiet noise of the start menu playing in the background. 

“Jake, this is incredible.”

“Told you,” he mumbled through a full mouth, “I'm good at everything.”

“I just kicked your ass five times and now you owe me $20 and three rounds of drinks next time we go to Shaw’s.” She countered, one eyebrow raised at his cockiness.

“I let you win. You seemed so heartbroken at the possibility of a loss, I took pity on you.” He responded, but his words didn't carry the bite of their usual banter. She glanced over and he was looking up at the ceiling, tentativeness written all over his features. 

“You wanna talk about it?” She asked after a beat, her voice as gentle as it could go. 

There was a long pause. 

“I'm bad at emotions.” He said, glaring at a glow-in-the-dark star above the TV. 

“I know.” She said, ever so softly. He swallowed hard, eyes refusing to meet hers. 

“Jake. Look at me.”

He tore his determined gaze away from its focus and looked back at her, and she stared straight back, concern apparent in her eyes as she took in his appearance. She hadn't taken notice of how exhausted he looked until now; the bags under his eyes were ever-present, and the crease between his eyebrows seemed set in permanence. 

His voice quivered slightly. “I just…I never know when to stop. When enough is enough.”

Her expression softened as she kept her gaze fixed on him, urging him silently to continue. She was almost always the one to come check on him in these situations, but their time together usually followed the same guidelines: they'd get too competitive over a video game, or marathon an old sitcom, or he’d make her watch Die Hard while they tossed popcorn at each other until Amy either retired to her own apartment for the night, or fell asleep on his couch. He’d never really opened up to her this much, and the near-fractured quality of his voice was heart-wrenching compared to his usual confidence. 

He swallowed again, pushing on. “I don't know when to stop, and it always pushes someone away. Sophia said she needed space, and she was right; I came kicking down the door with the first plan I could think up.” The way he spoke remained hesitant, but Amy could tell he was grateful for an ear to rant to. God knows he needed one of those. 

“That's not true. I'm still here, right?” She prompted, comfort lacing her every word. 

“Yeah, but we…we work together. You kinda have to be here.” Jake mumbled. He was avoiding her eyes again, but she could still see the deep-seated doubt in them. 

“Do I?” She questioned. “Sure, I have to see you at work every day. But that doesn't mean I have to be here, at your apartment, playing Mario Kart and eating banana bread with you at 1 am.” 

A sad smile pulled at his lips. “I guess you're just used to me. We've worked together for way longer than I knew Sophia.” 

Amy wanted to say it wasn't just that. Sure, she'd gotten used to his antics, and yes, she'd grown to find them endearing, against her initial judgement. She wanted to say how much he had impacted her, and how much his inclination to not know when to stop had influenced her to take more risks. She had grown to love the way he looked at life. She’d grown to love how he carried himself through the world. 

If Amy were being honest with herself, she would've phrased it differently.

_She had grown to love him._

Instead, she sighed, and resigned to a watered-down version of the truth. 

“That might be part of it. But it's not your fault that Sophia couldn't get used to it soon enough.”

“Because she didn't have to.” His voice was soft, honesty soaking each word. 

“No, she didn't. Which, frankly, is too bad for her. I mean, isn't it good to be so eager? Being cautious 24/7 certainly hasn't done me too many favors.” She lamented. 

An impossibly small smile lit up his face, and he chuckled slightly. “I guess so. Thanks, Ames.”

“Anytime, Jake. Eyes closed, head first, can't lose, right?” She added, looking to him with a hopeful gaze. 

He turned to face her, his smile now full-force, yet still soft as ever. 

“Right.”

They settled back into their relaxed silence, arms lightly pressing against each other where they sat. After a few moments, Amy had a thought. 

“So…you stress-bake, huh?”

“Yeah…” He spoke tentatively, unsure where she was going. 

“I've always wished I could bake,” She continued, lighthearted. “My _abuela_ always made me chocolate chip cookies before a big test, or a job interview or something. I tried to recreate it before my first major test in the academy, but it didn't exactly go over well. Maybe that's why I only got a B+…” She pondered. 

“Only a B+? Man.” Jake shook his head in disbelief. “Anyhoo, that makes sense. Your cooking is atrocious.” He grinned at her, earning himself an elongated eye-roll. 

“Besides,” he continued, “chocolate chip cookies are like, the easiest thing to make. Ever. Seriously, I've had that recipe memorized from day one.”

She paused, looking at him apprehensively. “Do you…maybe you could teach me?” She muttered.

A moment of semi-stunned silence passed.

“Amelia. Santiago. Are you asking me, the great Jacob Peralta, to bestow onto you my great baking skills?” He said in mock disbelief. 

“First of all, it's _unto_ , not onto. And….yes.”

A grin broke across both of their faces, and he grabbed her hand and practically dragged her to the kitchen, laughter peppering each step. 

***

After many spilled cups of flour and many stolen spoonfuls of cookie dough, they emerged with three batches of chocolate chip cookies that rivalled anything she’d ever bought at a store. 

“These are incredible.” Amy murmured in between mouthfuls, the cookies on the coffee table. Both of them a few beers in, they sat with their shoulders pressed together on the floor, some old recording of some movie that she didn't have the energy to acknowledge playing in the background. 

Jake glanced over at the clock on the wall, which now read 4:07 AM. He looked back at Amy, her head leaned back and alcohol-induced wonder in her eyes, and spoke up. 

“It's 4 in the morning.”

“Yep.”

“Are you drunk?”

“A little.”

“Should you be driving?”

At this, she turned her gaze towards him. 

“Probably not.”

“I'll take the floor,” He offered, voice soft. 

“Done.” She nodded, crawling up onto the couch. 

After a few quiet moments and some shuffling around, she was sound asleep on the couch, arm hanging off next to Jake’s head. He, in turn, laid on his back, and dozed off looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling with much less intensity than he had been a few hours ago. 

***

It had been about five days since their impromptu sleepover, and Amy had held true to her word: not a single soul had caught wind of Jake’s penchant for baking. In fact, all thoughts of that night were pretty much forced to the back of her mind within three days, when her sister-in-law had called to inform her of some sort of non-fatal incident; one of her brothers had gotten into a car accident, and was currently holed up at Brooklyn Methodist. She knew he would be fine, as it was all minor injuries (not to mention his incessant texts about how bored he was), yet she couldn't help but stress; she had spilled all this to Jake on a stakeout a few hours after visiting the hospital one night, about how her mother always worried herself into exhaustion when these kinds of things happened, and all of the what-ifs of the whole situation. 

So, when she walked into the precinct the next morning to find a container of still-warm chocolate chip cookies at her desk, she bit back a smile and looked up to Jake, sitting at his adjacent desk and looking back at her with an indescribable softness in his gaze. 

Later on, when Charles tried a cookie and immediately demanded to know where she had gotten them, she heard Jake sputter and stammered out a hasty explanation that her mom had made them. 

Charles accepted it without further question, and after insisting she sent him the recipe, he turned back towards his desk. This time, Amy couldn't hide her smile as she looked up at Jake again, a silent thanks in her eyes. He nodded back to her slightly, and she tried not to think about how his smile felt like home.


End file.
